The Ink Chapel

This is late. But I needed time to process someone else’s brain.

Failed miserably. So wrote this to detox the failure.

Let’s just get this out of the way: This goes for any holiday.

If you haven’t spoken to me in six months, don’t pop up on Christmas like we’re good.

Don’t do it.

Don’t pretend it’s harmless.

Don’t act shocked when it doesn’t land well.

Because here’s the thing — I was fine.

Actually fine.

Living my life. Breathing. Stable. Not waiting. Not wondering. Not missing you.

And then—

ding

“Merry Christmas.”

Two words.

After six months.

That’s not love. That’s disruption.

That’s you tapping on the glass of my life once a year to make sure you still exist in it — without actually being in it.

And no, I’m not going to just say it back to keep things “nice,” because that would teach you that disappearing is fine as long as you reappear on holidays. It would teach you that accountability is optional. That intention matters more than impact.

I’m not doing that anymore.

Here’s what people don’t want to hear:

Holiday texts don’t erase patterns.

They highlight them.

This wasn’t a one-off. This has been my entire adult life.

You show up when it’s convenient.

You leave when it’s not.

You come back when the calendar gives you permission.

Christmas visits. A few days. Gone.

No real presence the rest of the year.

No consistency. No repair.

And every time, the silent expectation is:

Pretend everything is fine.

No. I’m tired of pretending.

So this time, I said the thing I’ve never been allowed to say:

If you want access to me, I need accountability.

Not explanations.

Not intentions.

Not “I love you.”

Not “this is hard for me.”

Accountability.

An apology for being absent.

An apology for not believing me.

An apology for spreading the idea that I was “taken,” “controlled,” or “a hostage.”

An apology for inserting yourself into my life and then acting confused when I have boundaries.

That was the requirement.

And instead of accountability, I got… feelings.

Explanations.

Vulnerability.

Intentions.

Love language.

“I miss you.”

“This is triggering for both of us.”

No.

It’s not triggering for me to hear accountability.

It’s triggering for you to be asked for it.

And that’s the part people don’t like.

Because when you ask for accountability, suddenly you’re “going after” someone. Suddenly you’re “too harsh.” Suddenly your boundary is framed as an attack.

Funny how that works.

Here’s the truth, plain and ugly:

Explaining yourself is not the same as apologizing.

Love without repair is just sentiment.

Intent does not cancel impact.

And I am not obligated to keep letting someone enter my home through a text message once a year — especially on Christmas — disrupt my nervous system, redefine my reality, and leave again.

That’s not family.

That’s not connection.

That’s not healthy.

So yeah. I blocked.

Not out of anger.

Not out of spite.

Not impulsively.

I blocked because boundaries without enforcement are just requests — and I’m done requesting basic decency from someone who’s had decades to show it.

I didn’t lose anything real.

I lost a pattern.

And honestly?

That feels like relief.

If this makes you uncomfortable, good.

It should.

Because a “Merry Christmas” after six months of silence isn’t kind — it’s performative.

And I’m not performing anymore.

Footnote:

¹ If the only time you remember I exist is when Jesus is born, that’s not a relationship — that’s a spiritual Google reminder with emotional audacity.

And if this sounds like it’s about you?

It probably is.

Sit with that instead of messaging me.

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